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Idea & Event Lead: Kanak Aggarwal Creative Support (Leaf Props): Anita Oberoi Organized by: EI Library, coordinated by Harinath A simple idea, a grateful heart, and a tree filled with messages reminded us that the greatest gifts often come in a few heartfelt words. This Father's Day, EI Library brought residents together through the Gratitude Tree—a beautiful activity where children and adults expressed their love for their fathers by writing heartfelt messages on leaf-shaped cards, creating a tree filled with appreciation and memories. The Story Behind the Tree Some celebrations begin with months of planning. Others begin with a simple idea and a willing heart. For Kanak Aggarwal, Father's Day has always been special. Being a true daddy's girl, she loves celebrating the occasion in meaningful ways. Inspired by the Mother's Day event organized earlier at EI Library, she wondered if fathers too could be celebrated through a community activity. "I always enjoy celebrating Father's Day," Kanak shared. "When I shared the idea with Harinath, he immediately trusted me to lead the event. That confidence gave me the motivation to make it a success." The concept was simple yet beautiful—a Gratitude Tree where residents could write messages for their fathers on leaf-shaped cards and place them on the branches, allowing the tree to slowly bloom with love and appreciation. Special thanks also go to Anita Oberoi, who helped prepare the beautiful leaf props that became the heart of the activity. When Gratitude Filled the Branches On the day of the event, children, parents, and grandparents stopped by the tree, picked up a leaf, and wrote messages that came straight from the heart. Each leaf carried a unique story. Some thanked their fathers for being their strongest support system. Some called them their superhero, their everything, or simply the best dad in the whole world. Others expressed gratitude for life lessons—teaching them to stay simple, kind, peaceful, and courageous. Some appreciated the little joys: chocolates, surprise gifts, family trips, ice creams, and the precious time fathers always find despite their busy schedules. A few messages wished only one thing: "Stay healthy." One beautiful note simply read: "Whatever I am today, it's because of my Dad." By the end of the evening, the once-bare tree had transformed into a vibrant canopy of gratitude, carrying dozens of heartfelt messages from across the community. A Father's Day at Home When I asked Kanak how she celebrated Father's Day with her father, her answer reflected the very spirit of the Gratitude Tree. With a smile, she shared that although she rarely cooks, she made French fries especially for him. Later, the family went out for momos—his favorite—and she gifted him ice cream. When I jokingly asked whether her father had given her a return gift, she laughed and said, "Yes... we're going out for dinner!" Sometimes, the most meaningful gifts aren't wrapped in boxes—they're shared over a simple meal, laughter, and time spent together. More Than an Event Reflecting on the day, Kanak shared that the happiest part wasn't organizing the activity—it was watching people participate. Seeing children and adults thoughtfully write messages for their fathers and proudly place them on the tree made the entire effort worthwhile. What began as one resident's idea became a beautiful community memory—one that reminded us that gratitude grows when it is shared. Looking at the Gratitude Tree covered in heartfelt messages, Kanak felt that every hour spent planning the event had been worthwhile. One simple idea had encouraged an entire community to pause, reflect, and say two words we often leave unsaid—"Thank you, Dad." Event Credits Idea & Event Lead: Kanak Aggarwal Creative Support (Leaf Props): Anita Oberoi Organized by: EI Library, coordinated by Harinath

Harinath Story Teller EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog Part 1: Describe The Rain The world they imagined together. Part 2: Describe Sight The world that pulled them apart. Sight brought possibilities neither had imagined. Yet while Aarav found purpose in building, Mira found joy in exploring. Somewhere between shared dreams and separate journeys, they stopped introducing themselves to each other. Describe Memory The separation happened quietly. No dramatic goodbye. No final declaration. No moment that could later be blamed. Just fewer calls. Fewer messages. Fewer attempts to explain things that neither seemed able to explain anymore. Then one day, they simply stopped trying. For a while, both felt relieved. Which surprised them. Aarav no longer had to wonder why Mira felt distant. Mira no longer had to wonder why Aarav seemed unable to understand what she was trying to say. The constant tension disappeared. Life became simpler. And both mistook that for peace. Years passed. Aarav built the life he had always imagined. He worked with visually impaired children. Trained mobility instructors. Helped families navigate fears he understood better than anyone. The work mattered. Every evening he returned home feeling useful. One afternoon, a young student asked him: "Sir, were you always this patient?" Aarav laughed. "No." "What changed?" Aarav thought for a moment. Then smiled. "I met someone who asked too many questions." The student looked confused. Aarav decided not to explain. Some stories take too long. Meanwhile, Mira built a very different life. Her work took her everywhere. Delhi. Jaipur. Ladakh. Kochi. Kathmandu. The world she once imagined through descriptions now unfolded before her own eyes. She photographed festivals. Markets. Mountains. People. Stories. Every city offered another horizon. Every horizon revealed another one beyond it. Exactly as she had hoped. One evening, standing on a mountain trail, someone asked her: "What's your favorite view?" Mira looked toward the valley below. Then surprised herself with her answer. "A train station." The person laughed. "A train station?" Mira smiled. "It's a long story." And left it at that. Over time, new people entered their lives. Good people. That was the difficult part. Neither found villains. Neither found mistakes. Aarav met someone kind. Someone dependable. Someone who admired his work. Someone who listened carefully. Mira met someone adventurous. Someone curious. Someone excited by the same possibilities she chased. On paper, everything made sense. The relationships were healthy. Comfortable. Adult. And yet. Now and then, something strange happened. Aarav would hear a question. A genuinely interesting question. And instinctively think: Mira would have loved this. Then remember she wasn't there. Years later, the habit still remained. Meanwhile, Mira would see something unusual. A street performer. A sudden rainstorm. A child asking impossible questions. And her first thought would be: Aarav would have had an answer for this. Then remember he wasn't there either. Neither spoke about it. Neither considered it important. Just an old habit. Nothing more. At least that was what they told themselves. The real surprise came later. Not from loneliness. Not from regret. But from comparison. Because their new partners understood them. They understood who they were. What they liked. What they wanted. What they feared. Yet something still felt different. One night, while returning home after dinner, Aarav realized what it was. His partner knew the man he had become. But not the boy who had once described red as a train arriving too fast. The thought arrived unexpectedly. And refused to leave. Hundreds of kilometers away, Mira arrived at a similar realization. Her partner knew the traveler. The photographer. The woman who chased stories across the country. But not the girl who had once spent an entire monsoon arguing about the sound of rain. For years, both had searched for people who understood them. Only to discover something unexpected. Understanding who a person is... is not always the same as understanding how they became that person. And some histories cannot be recreated. No matter how much love follows afterward. Describe the Rain Rain tapped softly against the restaurant window. Aarav looked at Mira. Twenty years had passed. Yet somehow the question felt unchanged. "Describe the rain." When she had asked it a few minutes ago, he had frozen. Not because he didn't know the answer. Because suddenly there were too many answers. Twenty years earlier, the question would have been easy. Back then, they had spent entire evenings describing rain. Arguing about rain. Laughing about rain. Trying to understand rain. Then life happened. Sight happened. Dreams happened. Distance happened. And somewhere along the way, they stopped describing things to each other. The strange part was that neither had noticed when it happened. Mira waited. Patient as always. Outside, rainwater raced down the glass. Headlights stretched into golden streaks. Mumbai hummed beneath the storm. Finally Aarav smiled. "Do you remember Churchgate Station?" Mira laughed immediately. "The platform that smelled like wet newspapers?" "And bad tea." "The tea was excellent." "It was terrible." They both laughed. For a moment they were sixteen again. Then silence returned. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just familiar. Aarav looked toward the rain. "You know..." "What?" "I used to think we spent all those years trying to describe the world." Mira tilted her head. "And now?" Aarav took his time answering. Because some answers need decades. "I think we were trying to describe ourselves." The rain continued falling. Neither spoke. The sentence settled gently between them. A memory finally finding the right name. Every conversation about fear. Every conversation about success. Every conversation about loneliness. Every conversation about home. They had never really been discussing those things. They had been showing each other who they were. Mira smiled. "We were terrible at explaining the world." Aarav laughed. "We were." "We kept getting everything wrong." "The color red." "The sea." "Sunsets." "Relationships." That last one made both of them smile. Outside, a train rattled somewhere in the distance. The sound barely reached the restaurant. Yet both noticed it. Some habits survived the years. Mira wrapped her hands around her tea cup. "Do you know what I finally understood?" Aarav shook his head. "When you got your sight, I thought you had changed." He listened. "When I got mine, I thought you couldn't understand me anymore." Aarav looked down. Neither statement felt untrue. Neither felt completely true either. Mira continued. "I spent years thinking we drifted apart because we became different people." "And?" She smiled. A sad smile. A peaceful smile. "I think we drifted apart because we stopped introducing those people to each other." Aarav stared at her. Of all the explanations they had considered over the years... that one felt closest. Not because it solved everything. Because it didn't. It simply explained enough. The rain grew heavier. For a few moments they watched it together. Just two people sitting beside the lives they had chosen. No regrets. No grand declarations. No impossible dreams of returning to the past. The past had already done its job. It had made them who they were. Mira smiled again. "You still haven't answered." Aarav looked outside. Rain slid down the glass exactly as it had twenty years ago. He listened. Not to the rain itself. To everything hidden inside it. Churchgate Station. Marine Drive. The Description Game. The promises. The arguments. The silences. The laughter. The years. Then he smiled. "It sounds like home." Mira didn't ask him to explain. She understood immediately. Outside, trains arrived. Trains departed. Rain continued falling across a city that had witnessed every version of them. The blind children. The dreamers. The lovers. The strangers. The people they became. Inside the restaurant, neither was trying to explain the world anymore. They were simply listening. And perhaps that had been the point all along. Read the Complete Journey Part 1: Describe The Rain The world they imagined together. Part 2: Describe Sight The world that pulled them apart. Part 3: Describe the Memory The world they finally understood.

Harinath Story Teller EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog What does rain sound like? Can a train be impatient? And why would anyone describe a mango as sunshine? Aarav and Mira have spent years arguing over impossible questions, terrible answers, and cups of tea that always seem to arrive at exactly the right time. Describe The Rain Mumbai was drowning again. Rain slid down the restaurant windows in crooked lines, blurring headlights into streaks of green, gold and red. Outside, people hurried beneath umbrellas that seemed far too small for the evening. Inside, the restaurant was warm, crowded, and noisy in the familiar way Mumbai always was during monsoon. Aarav arrived ten minutes early. Some habits survive longer than relationships. He chose the table by the window and immediately smiled at the irony. Years ago, he would never have cared where he sat. A window had meant nothing to him then. Now he found himself watching raindrops race each other down the glass. He checked his watch. Then checked it again. Then laughed quietly at himself. Some habits survive longer than pride too. The waiter arrived. "Sir, would you like to order?" Aarav shook his head. "I'm waiting for someone." The waiter nodded and disappeared. Aarav turned back toward the rain. He had imagined this meeting many times over the years. In some versions, it was awkward. In others, emotional. In one particularly dramatic version, she threw a glass of water at him. Fortunately, Mira had always been far too sensible for that. The restaurant door opened. A gust of damp air entered with it. Aarav looked up. And forgot every version he had imagined. She stood near the entrance, folding her umbrella. For a moment she scanned the room. Then her eyes found him. Neither smiled immediately. Neither waved. Neither moved. They simply looked at each other. It was strange. For years they had recognized each other instantly. Not by sight. By footsteps. By breathing. By the rhythm of a sentence. By silence. Now they sat there like strangers, using eyes for something that once required none. Mira walked toward the table. The same steady pace. The same slight tilt of her head when she was thinking. Some things survived longer than time. "You're early." She said Aarav smiled. "And you're still late." She pulled out the chair opposite him. "Three minutes isn't late." "It is when you've kept someone waiting for eight years." Aarav teasing her For the first time, she laughed. The sound landed somewhere deep inside him. Familiar. Dangerously familiar. The waiter appeared. Menus were offered. Ignored. Tea was ordered. Automatically. Neither needed to ask. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was crowded. Filled with things neither knew how to begin saying. Outside, rain hammered the city. Inside, two people who once knew everything about each other searched for a place to start. Mira looked toward the window. "Still raining." Aarav followed her gaze. "Some things never change." She smiled. "That's not true." Neither of them said anything after that. Because both knew exactly what she meant. The tea arrived. Neither of them touched it immediately. Outside, the rain had become heavier. Water streamed down the restaurant windows, turning the city into a blurry painting. Mira watched it for a moment. Then she smiled. "Do you remember the rain game?" Aarav looked up from his cup. Of all the things he expected her to mention, he hadn't expected that. "The rain game?" "You know exactly which one." Mira replied Aarav laughed. "The day you spent two hours arguing that rain sounded lonely?" "Because it does." Mira protested "It doesn't." "See? Eight years later and you're still wrong." Outside, thunder rolled across the city. Then she turned toward Aarav. "Describe the rain." Aarav stopped moving. The teaspoon froze halfway to his cup. For a moment he simply stared at her. Not because he didn't understand the question. Because he understood it too well. A smile appeared on Mira's face. Small. Sad. Knowing. Aarav looked back toward the rain. And suddenly he was no longer sitting inside a restaurant. He was sixteen years old again. Standing on a crowded station platform. Listening to rain. Listening to laughter. Listening to a girl who always had one more question. Twenty years earlier... Describe a Train The platform smelled of wet concrete and chai. Rain hammered the metal roof overhead so loudly that station announcements dissolved into static. Aarav sat on a cold steel bench, listening. That was one of his favorite things to do. Listen. The city always revealed more through sound than people realized. Footsteps. Train brakes. Vendors. Arguments. Laughter. Everyone was telling a story without knowing it. Somewhere nearby, a train arrived. Aarav smiled. "Borivali slow." A voice immediately answered. "No." Aarav sighed. "You're late." The voice laughed. "You're wrong." Mira sat beside him, folding her white cane. "Churchgate fast." "It is not." "It is." "It's Borivali." Aarav repeats "It's Churchgate." They sat silently for a moment. The train doors opened. Passengers poured out. A few seconds later, the announcement finally arrived. Churchgate Fast. Mira grinned. "I win." "You cheated." "How?" "You probably heard someone say it." "I did not." "You definitely did." She nudged his shoulder. "You just hate losing." "I don't hate losing." "You do." "I hate being wrong." "That's the same thing." Aarav opened his mouth to argue. Then stopped. Because she was right. Unfortunately. Rain crashed against the roof above them. For a while, neither spoke. Then Mira suddenly asked, "Do you think rain sounds the same to everyone?" Aarav groaned. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." "It isn't impossible." "It is." "No." "Fine. Ask." Mira tilted her head slightly, listening to the storm. "Do you think it sounds the same to everyone?" Aarav thought about it. "No." "Why?" "Because people hear different things." "What do you hear?" He listened for a moment. The rain struck metal. Concrete. Train tracks. Umbrellas. The city answered in a hundred different voices. "It sounds busy." Mira laughed. "Busy?" "Yes." "Rain can't be busy." "Why not?" "It just falls." "Exactly." "That doesn't explain anything." Mira puzzled "It sounds like Mumbai." Mira considered that. Then shook her head. "No." "What does it sound like to you?" She waited a few seconds before answering. "Lonely." Aarav nearly choked. "Lonely?" "Yes." "How can rain be lonely?" "Because it keeps falling." "So?" "And nobody ever catches it." For a moment, Aarav didn't know what to say. Only Mira could listen to a thunderstorm and feel sorry for it. He laughed. "That's ridiculous." "It isn't." "It absolutely is." "It isn't." "It is." "It isn't." They continued arguing until a train arrived and drowned both of them out. Neither noticed. Neither cared. The argument was never really about rain. Not that they knew it then. Years later, Aarav would remember that evening differently. Not because of the station. Not because of the storm. Not even because Mira had won the train argument. He remembered it because it was the first time someone had shown him that two people could stand in the same place, listen to the same rain, and still live in completely different worlds. For reasons he couldn't explain, that made him want to know hers. Describe Red The game started by accident. At least neither of them could later remember who invented it. One evening, while waiting for a delayed train, Mira asked: "Describe a mango." Aarav frowned. "A mango is a mango." "That's not describing." "Then what is?" "You have to make me understand it." "You've eaten mangoes." "That's not the point." Aarav groaned. Mira laughed. "Go on." He thought for a moment. Then said, "It's like sunshine that became a fruit." Mira smiled. "See? That wasn't so hard." The next day she came prepared. "Describe a train." "A train?" "Yes." "A metal animal that's always in a hurry." Mira nodded approvingly. "Better." A week later, the game had rules. No obvious answers. No repeating descriptions. And no giving up. The game followed them everywhere. Train platforms. Tea stalls. Bus stops. Marine Drive. Hospital waiting rooms. Sometimes they played for five minutes. Sometimes for hours. "Describe the sea." Aarav listened to the distant waves. "It sounds like a giant breathing." Mira tilted her head. "A tired giant or an angry giant?" "A tired one." "Good answer." "Describe fear." This time Aarav answered immediately. "Missing your station and not realizing it." Mira became quiet. For reasons he couldn't explain, that answer felt true. A few days later he got his revenge. "Fine. Your turn." Mira smiled. "Ask." "Describe loneliness." The confidence vanished from her voice. She took longer than usual. Finally she said, "Talking when nobody is listening." A train thundered past. Neither spoke for a while. As months passed, the game became less about objects and more about people. "Describe success." Mira answered, "Reaching a place you once thought was impossible." "Describe home." Aarav thought for a moment. Then shrugged. "The place where nobody asks you to explain yourself." For the first time, Mira had no joke ready. Somewhere along the way, they stopped noticing how much time they spent together. Their families noticed. Their friends noticed. The tea vendor near the station noticed. Everyone except them. To Aarav, Mira was simply the first person who made ordinary things interesting. To Mira, Aarav was the first person who treated her questions seriously. One evening they sat beneath the shelter of a closed shop while rain battered the streets. The city smelled of wet earth, diesel, and tea. Mira was unusually quiet. Aarav nudged her shoulder. "Your turn." She smiled. "Fine." A long pause followed. Then she asked: "Describe red." Aarav laughed. "How am I supposed to do that?" "You always complain first." "Because your questions are impossible." "That's why they're fun." He listened to the rain. The traffic. The distant train. The heartbeat of a city neither of them had ever seen. Then he said softly, "Red sounds like a train arriving too fast." Mira laughed. "That's terrible." "It's brilliant." "It isn't." "It is." "It isn't." The argument continued all the way until her bus arrived. Years later, neither of them would remember who won. But both would remember waiting for the next question. Because somewhere between describing rain, trains, fear, loneliness, and colors, they had started doing something neither of them understood. They weren't just describing the world. They were slowly learning how the other person lived inside it. Describe Home The older they grew, the harder it became to find time. There were classes. Assignments. Part-time jobs. Family responsibilities. The endless list of things adulthood seemed determined to add to every day. For the first time since they had met, there were days when Aarav and Mira didn't speak. Then weeks when they met only once. Neither complained. Neither needed to. The absence did the complaining for them. One Saturday evening, they found themselves sitting on the promenade at Marine Drive. The sea was unusually calm. Waves rolled toward the rocks and retreated again. The city buzzed behind them. Cars. Conversations. Footsteps. Vendors. Mumbai never truly became quiet. It simply changed the sounds it used. Aarav handed Mira a paper cup of tea. She accepted it. "You're late." "You've become impatient." "I've always been impatient." "No," Mira said. "You've become impatient with me." Aarav laughed. "You are impossible." "I know." The conversation drifted away. As it often did. Silence never felt uncomfortable with Mira. Most people filled silence because they were afraid of it. With her, silence felt like part of the conversation. After a while, Mira spoke. "Describe home." Aarav sighed immediately. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." "It isn't impossible." "It absolutely is." She smiled into her tea. "Answer it anyway." "I already answered this." "When?" "Months ago." "I've changed since then." Aarav laughed. "You're exactly the same." "No one stays exactly the same." He thought about that. The sea continued breathing in front of them. Finally he asked, "What's your answer?" Mira didn't hesitate. "Home is where I can be annoying and nobody leaves." Aarav burst out laughing. "That explains a lot." "It does." "What about the people around you?" "What about them?" "They deserve compensation." Mira nudged his shoulder. "Your turn." Aarav leaned back. The breeze carried salt through the air. For once, he took longer than usual. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. "Home is where I don't have to explain myself." Mira stopped smiling. Not because the answer was sad. Because it wasn't. It was true. She knew exactly what he meant. There were people who listened. And there were people who understood. The difference mattered more than most people realized. The sea filled the silence between them. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed. A vendor shouted. A motorcycle roared past. The city continued exactly as it always had. Yet something felt different. Neither could explain why. Eventually Mira spoke again. "You know what's strange?" "What?" "We've spent years describing the world to each other." "That's because your questions are terrible." She ignored him. "I have no idea what you look like." Aarav smiled. "Probably handsome." "Confidence is attractive." "That's fortunate." "Why?" "Looks clearly aren't helping me." Mira laughed. The sound lingered longer than the joke deserved. Then she became thoughtful. "I wasn't wondering what you look like." "What were you wondering?" She turned her face toward the sea. "If we'd met any other way..." She paused. "Would we have noticed each other?" The question hung between them. For the first time in years, Aarav didn't have a clever answer. He thought about crowded trains. Busy streets. College classrooms. Thousands of strangers passing each other every day. Then he thought about Mira. The impossible questions. The arguments about rain. The descriptions. The endless conversations. The feeling of never needing to explain himself. "No," he said honestly. Mira smiled. "Neither would I." Strangely, neither of them sounded disappointed. They sat there for a while, listening to the waves. Two people who would probably never have noticed each other. Yet somehow had become part of each other's idea of home. Neither called it love. Neither needed to. Some things become true long before they are spoken aloud. Describe Tomorrow The idea came from a newspaper article. Mira found it first. Which was unusual. Most things in their friendship arrived through questions. This time it arrived through hope. They were sitting at their usual tea stall near Churchgate station when Mira unfolded a newspaper and placed it between them. "Listen to this." Aarav was suspicious immediately. "Every time you say that, my day becomes complicated." "That's because your imagination is weak." "My imagination is excellent." "You once described red as a train arriving too fast." "It was a brilliant answer." "It was terrible." "It was art." Mira ignored him and began reading. The article was about a young man who had regained partial sight after an experimental procedure. Neither spoke while she read. The sounds of the city continued around them. Trains. Conversations. Tea glasses. Life moving forward. When she finished, silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. Aarav broke it first. "Do you think it'll happen?" "What?" "Something like that." Mira folded the newspaper carefully. "I don't know." Another pause. "Do you?" Aarav listened to a train arriving in the distance. The familiar screech of brakes. The rush of passengers. The rhythm of a city he knew better than most sighted people. For years, he had imagined what seeing would be like. Not often. But enough. Enough to wonder. Enough to dream. Enough to be disappointed whenever the dream felt impossible. "Sometimes." Mira smiled. "Only sometimes?" "I'm trying to sound mature." "You've never sounded mature." "That's fair." The conversation drifted away. But the idea remained. Lingering. Quietly occupying the space between them. That evening they walked to Marine Drive. The sea breeze was stronger than usual. Waves crashed against the rocks below. People filled the promenade. Families. Couples. Vendors. Tourists. Everyone watching a sunset neither of them could see. Mira sat on the seawall. Aarav beside her. For a while, neither spoke. The city felt larger than usual. Full of possibilities. Then Mira asked softly, "If you could see for one day..." Aarav smiled. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." She laughed. "Answer it." He thought carefully. "What would I see first?" "Yes." The answer came surprisingly quickly. "You." Mira became quiet. Aarav continued before he could think too much about what he'd just said. "I've spent years listening to you." A smile appeared on her face. "That's a dangerous amount of patience." "It really is." "What about after that?" Aarav considered it. "The sea." "Why?" "Because everyone keeps talking about it." "Reasonable." "What about you?" Mira didn't answer immediately. The waves filled the silence. Finally she said, "Everything." Aarav laughed. "Everything?" "Everything." "That's not possible." "I know." "But I'd try." The answer didn't surprise him. It was exactly the kind of answer Mira would give. The city lights slowly came alive behind them. Though neither knew it. The air became cooler. The crowd began thinning. After a while Mira spoke again. Quieter this time. Almost as though she were talking to herself. "If it ever happens..." Aarav turned toward her. "If what happens?" "If either of us gets to see." The breeze carried her words away for a moment. Then she continued. "Promise me something." "What?" "Promise me we'll experience it together." Aarav smiled. The request felt unnecessary. The kind of promise that didn't need making because it was already true. "Of course." "No." Mira shook her head. "I mean it." For once there was no teasing in her voice. No joke. No impossible question. Just sincerity. "If one of us sees before the other..." She paused. "We wait." Aarav frowned. "Wait?" "For each other." "Why?" Mira smiled. Because if anyone else had asked that question, she would have struggled to answer. But Aarav already knew. "Because then who would I argue with about it?" The waves crashed below them. The city breathed around them. And somewhere inside Aarav, something shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough to name. Just enough to remember. He extended his hand. "Fine." Mira laughed. "That's your serious face?" Aarav feeling her face "You can't see my face." "Exactly." She took his hand anyway. "Deal." "Deal." Years later, both of them would remember that evening. Not because of the promise. But because of how easy it had been to make. Some promises are difficult because they ask too much. Others are difficult because they seem impossible to break. At the time, neither Aarav nor Mira could imagine a future in which they would want different things. The possibility never even occurred to them. And perhaps that was the most beautiful part of being young. End of Part 1 Continue Reading... Part 2: Describe Sight Part 3: Describe the Memory What Lies Ahead? A miracle arrives, followed by possibilities neither imagined. As sight expands their worlds, Aarav and Mira begin discovering something far more complicated than darkness—change.